The Direct Approach
by Queen of the Castle
Summary: When Draco eventually figures out that Harry doesn't recognise insults and fisticuffs as a brand of stealth flirting, he drastically changes his tactics. Harry/Draco


It started with Harry innocently complaining that his hands were cold.

He hadn't thought to grab his gloves when the Floo call had come in, and while it hadn't been a problem when they'd still been comfortably inside Slugs and Jiggers getting statements from the proprietor and two witnesses, the temperature outside really left something to be desired.

Draco, for once, didn't just roll his eyes and snidely wonder aloud how many decades would pass before Harry no longer needed to be reminded daily that he was a wizard. He didn't even take it upon himself to perfunctorily tap his wand against Harry's fingers and cast a warming charm just for the sake of putting an early stop to Harry's 'transparent bid for undeserved sympathy' (a phrase Harry had grown far too used to hearing over the past few months). Instead, Draco reached out to grasp both of Harry's hands in his, then drew them close against his own body, folding them inside the heated front of Draco's heavy outer cloak.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd so much as brushed against Draco except when they were sparring on the practice mats (or when they were actually pummelling each other for real a few times in the early days of their partnership). To have his hands being _cradled tenderly_ by Malfoy should have been beyond awkward and more than a little bizarre. He should have jerked his hands away as if they'd been burned, or at least just laughed it off and strolled away casually.

Instead, probably due to his absolute shock that Draco was willingly touching him, Harry's fingers did nothing more than curl reflexively. Despite himself, he could feel how surprisingly firm the man's chest was under his hands. The knowledge that he was actually noticing (no, to be honest, _admiring_) what was under Draco Malfoy's robes had him promptly blushing so hot that he could hardly believe he'd felt even remotely chilled just moments ago.

"Better?" Draco asked, as if he hadn't done anything at all extraordinary; as if he hadn't just thrown Harry's mind into a whirl without the slightest warning. Or, more particularly, as if Harry's hands weren't _still_ burrowing into the warmth of Draco's body, with Draco's own hands closed around them as if he didn't want to take the risk that Harry would try to retreat if given the opportunity.

Harry didn't have a clue what was happening here – whether this was all one of Draco's borderline-cruel jokes, or some big mistake on both of their parts, or just Harry managing to take something way out of context. Still, Harry never had been particularly big on doing a lot of thinking before he acted, so why should he let himself get bogged down in all of that now?

It was a hundred times easier to just follow Draco's lead (willingly, even, which was a fairly new experience for Harry).

The two of them were suddenly a blur of motion as they moved together, stumbling through the snow like drunkards, so frantic and mindless in the way they grasped at each other that Harry couldn't rightly recall who moved first or when Draco's fingers had hitched themselves into the waistband of Harry's trousers.

He certainly had no idea how he'd let himself end up with his back pressed against a lamppost.

Draco's gloved hand cupped Harry's chin and pulled him determinedly into a kiss. The hard metal digging uncomfortably against his spine, the creeping sensation of small crystals of ice defrosting in his wild hair, and _everything_ else that wasn't Draco's lips or his questing fingers or his thigh insinuating itself between Harry's legs faded away, as if the falling snow had temporarily enfolded the two of them in their own personal curtain of thick white.

The privacy was only an illusion, of course. They were still standing smack in the middle of Diagon Alley. Reporters were probably at that very moment snapping pictures of and dreaming up stories of their 'Chosen One' shirking his duties to let his Auror partner molest him in the street. This kiss (and every fumbling touch) would probably be playing on a loop on the very next cover of _Witch Weekly_.

Harry knew he should care about all that. He usually would. He probably would in a few hours, when it probably struck him.

But, at least for right now when he was caught up in the moment, privacy actually seemed kind of overrated compared to some things.

~FIN~


End file.
